<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>feast your eyes by calcelmo</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945779">feast your eyes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcelmo/pseuds/calcelmo'>calcelmo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>8ft Tall Big Titty Vampire GF, Blood Drinking, F/M, resident evil village - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:35:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcelmo/pseuds/calcelmo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They name a syndrome after it. Pre-Stockholm, post-trauma; the unwavering belief that you, and you alone, can tame the feral and wild. The most disturbing part was the element of truth. That something had stopped him from being torn to pieces; something about him made these creatures want to toy with their food before they ate it. It’s one thing to sleep with lions; another when they’re hungry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ethan Winters/Lady Dimitrescu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>213</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>feast your eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from Narc by Interpol because that's what I was listening to while I wrote this.<br/>I would like to write more about these two but I decided to just do something short bearing in mind we've only seen the trailer and gameplay demo so far. Please let me know if you liked it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“This wine,” Lady Dimitrescu informs him, a half-smile gracing her face, “is older than you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he watches the liquid poured from a height into the jewel-encrusted goblet, Ethan recalls the last thing he’d said to someone sane.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t come looking for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try it,” she says; always smiling, the corners of her mouth lifted into points. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back at her with his heart racing like sparrow’s wings. She likes the novelty of meeting a fearless gaze. It’s not that he isn’t scared, but that he’s tired. Night terrors have plagued him for months, phantom aches from rusted metal and swarms of insects. After everything, it only seems right to return to a monster’s clutches - here, head cradled in her saber grasp, he finds some semblance of peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Dimitrescu brings the chalice to his lips, a gruesomely gentle action that makes him shift hesitantly in her hold, wary of tenderness, but secretly craving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The liquid trickles out onto his tongue. It’s heavy, rich, disgustingly metallic, as if a slew of pennies is being poured into his throat. He chokes a little, and she lets up, claws furrowing through his hair in some strange imitation of comfort, until he marshalls his breathing to swallow more rhythmically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it?” she murmurs.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Sanguis Virginis, the famed vintage bottled right here in the castle, the only place in the world where the prized red is produced. Ethan has never really cared much for wine, but there’s something different about this. He knows what it is; watched her tap it from the source, watched droplets of red harvested from hessian sacks of skin and organs. And even though he</span>
  <em>
    <span> knows,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s licking his lips, chasing the taste; eagerly opening his mouth when she tips the chalice once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mineral flavor of it hits hard again, heavy and earthen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I remember when I found you,” she muses. “I thought I had broken you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan remembers too. He had crawled towards the door, clawing at plush, dusty carpet, dragging himself towards glaring white snow and the screaming wind. He’d heard her delighted laughter from the hall, and just lay still, rested his cheek against the stone and let the blood from his gums seep out to stain it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Predators can’t resist moving prey. He thinks that’s what saved his life. She purred, she picked him up as if he was a child. She used to like it when they screamed, but she knew in that moment she’d been dearly missing out on surrender. When she picked up his broken wrist, lined with scar tissue and fresh, tender bite marks, he’d only blinked like dying roadkill, and let out a shuddering, shaking sigh. It was enthralling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cup is taken back and he almost finds himself following it. The wine was renowned for a reason, and his tongue touches the back of his teeth to lick the last of it away.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you stay, now?” she asks. Her head tilts, like a cat, with golden eyes shining through the dusty, dim cellar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What about my daughter?" he whispers. His voice sounds scratchy and hoarse, unused, silenced from long hours of stealth. His hair is matted with his own blood, going rusted brown at the tips, while his clothes are saturated with dust, dirt caked under his fingernails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Dimitrescu sighs. As she does it, her thumb smears red over Ethan's lip and onto chin, placating and absent-minded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maidens are plentiful. But you…" She bends down, full lips peeling back to reveal sharp teeth bared in a self-satisfied grin. "There is only one you, Ethan." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses his throat, sharpened canines brushing his jugular vein, scraping feather-light over his Adam's apple. He shivers, turning his head into her chest, momentarily giving himself up to the false sense of security.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So," she states, drawing back, dignified as ever. "Do we have a deal?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan understands the gravity of the question, but the alcohol numbs the terror till it's dull and tolerable. Never to see his family again, bled like an animal for his mistress' monstrous pleasure. But this is his only chance to save his daughter. What is life, if you can't live with yourself? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, and nods, tasting maiden’s blood, the shape of her claws a warning on his back; her lips as cold as she looks when he finally reaches up to meet them.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They name a syndrome after it. Pre-Stockholm, post-trauma; the unwavering belief that you, and you alone, can tame the feral and wild. The most disturbing part was the element of truth. That something had stopped him from being torn to pieces; something about him made these creatures want to toy with their food before they ate it. It’s one thing to sleep with lions; another when they’re hungry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>